


Behind that Locked Door

by SittingOnACornflake



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Past Character Death, Sad Ending, ghost - Freeform, i hadn't planned to write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:26:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27107182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SittingOnACornflake/pseuds/SittingOnACornflake
Summary: He's a ghost, or something like that - how could he know? He's watching them. He doesn't like what he sees.
Relationships: Brian Epstein & John Lennon & Paul McCartney & George Harrison & Ringo Starr
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Behind that Locked Door

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This has been in my drafts for three weeks. It's really different from what I usually write (in this fandom anyway). I hope you'll like it, and most of all I hope you're having a good day or night <3

It hurts him, to see the four of them like that. He hasn’t seen them in a while, decided to come by, check in on them and see how they're doing. He found them just where he thought they'd be. They’re all in the same room, assembled in the studio, and they’re recording a song. Just like they used to.

Expect nothing is like it used to. Not like it was in the beginning anyway.

It's not _the four of them_ anymore.

These are not the Beatles. It's just a Beatle, and another, yet another one and another one still.

He hadn’t expected things would go that way. Retrospectively, now that he's _witnessing it_ with his own eyes - or whatever allows him to see right now because he doesn’t know how this works, doesn’t make the rules, you know things would be different if he did ... – he understands this stuff didn’t appear yesterday, or even the day before. It's been lying in wait in dark corners for a while, gathering strength, feeding itself from exhaustion and frustration, and now it's not hiding anymore. It's proud and belligerent and poisoning everything it can. _But what?_ he wonders, bewildered by the change. _What is it?_ Would he even have noticed, had he stayed? If he'd kept spending every single day with them, would he have felt it as strongly as he does now? Or would it just have felt natural? He's always prided himself on his instinct, but he's not sure of anything anymore. It might just be due to the fact he can't belong here anymore either. Once more, he has no way to be sure of anything; even uncertainty itself is desperately out of his reach.

Now, though, he sees them and he knows something is lacking – apart from himself, of course. He’s stuck on the other side of the mirror, can't join them in the recording room anymore. But something else is absent. Something else has faded away.

It’s surprising that the answer doesn’t hide from him for once. It jumps on him, rather, makes him lurch – how ironic considering what he has become – and clings onto his throat as if to make sure he won’t look away. Won’t look away from their faces, distorted in anger and uneasiness.

_They have forgotten they love each other,_ he realizes. Pangs of sorrow echo through him, merely hurting him as they pass him by, before dissipating into the air – the air that’s so cold, so bitter.

He wishes he could just open that damn door and hop in. He can almost picture himself doing it. He'd say little things. Meaningless sentences, harmless chatter. The scolding would be toned down, cheerfulness would challenge anyone to contradict him. A few words could be enough.

_John and Paul, bickering again, aren’t you? Ringo, stop watching from a corner and join them. George, didn’t you say something about patience last time I saw you?_

Maybe he'd say that; maybe he'd say something entirely different. Maybe that would be too direct. Maybe that would be just what they need. He can't know for sure, and how irritating this fact is to him ... But if he could step in, he'd know. Instinct would take over. If only he weren’t behind that locked door, who knows what wonders he might make.

When they were _the four of them_ , he was an outsider. Never, even during the most glorious hours, was he part of that _four of them_. Still, if one of his feet was stuck out, he also had one foot in. He understood, he fixed whatever was in need of fixing and kept the rest in order. Sometimes he would direct the anger, resentment, anything he could sense between the four of them, towards himself because it would prevent the square from distorting. That wonderful square that fascinated him, he wanted to keep it that way and that was that.

He finds that it happened while he was away.

The square has lost its geometric precision. Someone has rubbed it out from its school notebook as easily John threw that piece of paper in a bin a few minutes ago.

He wasn’t that much older than the four of them. More often than not, though, he felt like he had a decade on them, or maybe even two. It had crossed his mind, at times, that he was a father to the four of them. A figure whose role was to remind them they are, the four of them, brothers, and that brothers aren’t meant to fight, _this_ stupid idea is a belief the world had ingrained in your brains, and _no, children, please–_

But they’re at it again. George has left the room, slamming the door behind him. Even from behind another locked door, the sound is deafening, much more than any experimental music they ever made while high. Ringo's still in a corner, looking sadder than his droopy eyes ever made him look. And John and Paul, they haven’t moved a bit. They're just arguing, each desperately clinging onto their guitars. It seems it'll just be endless.

Brian sighs. He sighs for such a long time that the faintest breeze begins to blow around him, seemingly coming from nowhere to anyone who might look. Not having lungs anymore helps, apparently. He takes in the sight of the three remaining Beatles, briefly wondering if George will come back, and when, before sighing again. As he turns away, he decides he won’t come back. Seeing them like this hurts too much. And there's nothing a ghost can do to help them anyway, right?

The breeze he summoned takes him away, takes him somewhere else, anywhere. He leaves the door locked and takes his feeling of uselessness with him.

He doesn’t see that, in the studio, the arguing slowly quietens.

“Did you feel that?” Paul asks.

“What?” John spats. This “what”, contrary to the ten previous ones, is only mildly aggressive.

“That breeze,” Paul says, running his hands up his arms. “But there's no window in here ...”

“I felt it too,” Ringo intervenes for the first time in hours.

They hum approvingly, pondering over the fact for a moment. Then, without deciding to, they begin to talk about something else. Eventually, George returns to the room, seizing his guitar without a word. Eventually, they get something recorded – not that good, but they agree they’ll try again tomorrow.

This faint feeling of peace that has seized them and made them calm down, that made them find again a relic of their past complicity, or even of their mere ability to communicate, it might not hold for long. It won’t. It was only two little loving sighs, after all, and they'd need a thousand to be back to what they used to. It still helped them that peculiar day – but once more, and almost in the same fashion as he did the first time, Brian has left too early.


End file.
